


Autumn at the End of the World

by shieldings



Category: DCU, Teen Titans (Animated Series), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: (it's vic we don't treat robot parts like prosthetics often enough), Adventure, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Canon Disabled Character, F/F, F/M, Multi, Team as Family, Whump, it starts in summer but like the end of summer, more tags to come i'm gonna put them there as things happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26307805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shieldings/pseuds/shieldings
Summary: Dick Grayson gives up his pride and decides to travel home across a destroyed country to the Last Free City.  As he travels, he's joined by other refuge-seeking misfits threatened by cults, mercenary armies, poor health, and general loneliness.  A makeshift family forms as they battle the elements and the other dangers of the long and dusty road to Gotham.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Everyone & Everyone, Raven/Tara Markov
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. Aren't the Stars Brilliant Tonight?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ggoing to be as Florid and Melodramatic as I like

Sometimes Dick wonders if the boredom will kill him, but on nights like this he’s afraid the guns will.

The sounds of the shots are softened by the walls of the McDonalds he’s camped out in, so he might as well do some stretches and distract himself.

He has no mat to practice on, but he braces himself against the slop sink and leans forward slightly, lifting his right leg in a shaky arabesque.  
  
Someone screams outside. Dick grits his teeth. He’s not afraid. He knows how to fight. He hasn’t become cowardly; he’s just conserving his resources.

He repeats with his right leg, more steadily this time. He hears another shot, from a different gun. He takes a deep breath and continues.

Dick has been living as pointlessly as any stray dog in the five months he’s been in this city. Well, as pointlessly as any stray dog that nobody’s caught and eaten. By day, he wanders aimlessly through the dusty streets, smiling politely at other ruffians and vagabonds and such. Sometimes he barters with the people who’ve set up shop in the abandoned drugstores and bars (he’s pretty sure that they aren’t running official franchises, since they sell switchblades and foul-smelling gasoline side-by-side with dirty bottles of ibuprofen). When the gangs come out, he holes up and eats cold ravioli until it’s over.

It’s gotten quiet. He sighs and sinks to the ground.

  
Now it’s time to wait until the next round of shots.

\---

First time inside a bathroom in a while. Everybody’s kind of excited. The water’s going to be on in ten minutes and not everyone’s going to get a chance to shower, so all the other mercs are crowding around in the women’s locker room, hoping to at least get their heads wet when the fateful moment arrives.

Tara’s not into that. Hot water doesn’t sound good to her right now (even though she feels quite cold). She’s staring into the dirty mirror. She doesn’t like the look on her face; can everyone see it?

Creeping over her torso and up her neck is an elaborate and jagged tattoo. She got it when she was just a kid, and it’s stretched and faded since then. Still, with her index finger she traces its black-and-bronze lines, its sharp and sudden angles. The tattoo isn’t what’s bothering her. Her hand rests on the bandage wrapped around her shoulder.

He’d bound it, almost tenderly, after they clashed with that other army two days ago. He’d told her to be more careful. Tara’s tough; she could handle the burning ache of a spear wound, and she could carry it easily with her until the pain subsided. Slade knows this about her. That’s why he rarely shows her that kind of gentleness. So why had he petted her hair and told her she was brave?

  
Tara knows, and it makes her sick.

_Two days ago, in the heat of the late-summer sun, the Defiance Company had engaged in senseless battle. Most of the army was on foot, but Tara, being a high-ranking lieutenant, was on horseback. The opposing army had more gunmen and more soldiers, and the smell of gunpowder was heavy in the air. People around her were violently churning. The sounds of blades clashing (axes, machetes, broken garden shears) and people shouting were deafening. She couldn’t tell whose people were whose; not everybody was wearing shirts that exposed their tattoos. As her head spun from the heat and the smell and the noise, somebody charged into her and pierced her shoulder with a spear. Tara fell backwards, sliding out of the saddle and crashing to the ground head-first._

_She saw him. She saw Slade, on his own horse, high above her. The sun glinted off his helmet, blindingly bright as her head pounded. He looked at her, lying broken in the hoof-hardened soil. Through his helmet she could see his single eye, appraising, staring down at her. She met his eye as her vision wavered and silently pleaded for him to pull her up and keep her from being crushed by the stamping hooves and the pounding feet. He didn’t. He turned his head and kept moving. Tara flickered into darkness._

_When she woke up, the battle was over. There were dead men and women lying scattered across the field, and scavengers were already picking at them, opening their pockets and digging into their flesh with knives for salvageable bullets. She propped herself up on her elbows, her shoulder throbbing, then rolled over and threw up._

_Luckily, someone from the Company was nearby. Grant was out chasing away scavengers (not for moral reasons; it was just that the possessions on their dead soldiers still belonged to the Company and had to be gathered before moving on). He heard her retching and ran to her._

_“Fuck,” he’d said. “We thought you were dead.”  
  
_

_And Tara had smiled sheepishly at him before remembering what had happened. Then there was a coldness in her chest, and she’d kept smiling, but the corners of her mouth felt stretched._

_Slade said he was happy she’d survived. He’d even taken care of her, checking in on her as she lay in the tent and letting her ride behind him on his horse while her arm was too weak to hold properly to reins. She’d gotten special treatment. People had talked._

_If he cared that much, then why? In the back of her mind, she saw that glinting helmet and that cold eye that rolled over her as it shifted to look ahead. Tara has killed for Slade countless times. If she saw him fall, she would try desperately to save him. So why wouldn’t he do the same for her?_

Tara morbidly presses on the wound and grounds herself with the pain. What _is_ her reason for being a soldier, anyway?

\---

“Looking good?” Vic asks. It looks fine to him, and he’s had it for years now, so he thinks he’s a pretty good judge.

“For tonight,” Doctor Pete says. He closes the panel on Vic’s arm with a satisfying snap. “You need to be more careful when doing heavy lifting. You’ve been straining the tendons.”

Technically, Doctor Pete isn’t a doctor. He’s a pross mechanic, and while they generally have a rough understanding of anatomy, Vic wouldn’t trust him to prescribe a medicine for any biological body. Of course, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a supply of drugs in the back of the shop.

Vic has been lucky, all things considered, so he isn’t bitter about the arms or the leg. The accident was long enough ago that the loss doesn’t feel jarring, even when his mechanical fingers struggle to do delicate work. He’d had the resources (keyword: “had”) to pay for high-quality prosses, and Doctor Pete is generally understanding when repairing him over stupid things.

“That it?” Vic asks, flexing his fist.

“Yep. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have the new screws for your leg. Don’t let it fall apart tonight.” Doctor Pete smiles and wiggles his fingers in a parody of a wave as Vic leaves.

It’s a bright evening, and the stars are shining in a way they couldn’t have before the grid went out. The moonlight shines softly on the roofs of the rusty abandoned cars in the street.

  
He hears a gunshot.

Probably time to go back to the colony.

Vic doesn’t have anybody to call a friend waiting for him, but it’s somehow comforting having other bodies breathing around him. That’s something he doesn’t miss about his house. He does miss the electric fence he’d jerry-rigged up with the car battery, though. Nobody was going to get over that fence into his shit.

Except, they did get over the fence, and they did indeed get into his shit. After the accident, Vic disappeared for a month to have his body rebuilt. Maybe the battery ran out of electricity, maybe somebody found a weak spot, or maybe they just gritted their teeth and endured some zapping to get in, but some gang or another got in and settled down. When their salmon pink flags (clearly made of cut-up polo shirts) didn’t scare Vic away as he tried to return, someone shot him in the shoulder bad enough that he had to take even more down time.

Taking down time is hard when you’re alone. Vic moved in with one of those Walmart colonies. He didn’t have anybody to latch on to, and maybe he looked intimidating because nobody latched on to him, even as weeks became months and years.  
  


His shoulder hurts.

\---

Sometimes he builds a fire, but that makes them nervous, so he usually doesn’t. It’s a balmy night, and Gar doesn’t care that his clothes are tatters anymore.

Everybody’s a little hungry, since it’s been a few days since they found that deer carcass (torn apart by something uncivilized like coyotes). Even though he’d rather not eat meat and the flesh was rancid and buggy, Gar had happily participated in the feast. After all, it’s not like tofu grows wild by the road. He hasn’t had it since he was traveling with the Producers, and he didn’t get much even then. He was the baby of the troupe, though, so he got treats like candied orange peel and rice steamed over a real stove.

Amber is licking her wrist again. Something hurt it a few days ago, and they’re not sure what it was. Maybe it’s sore, maybe it’s itchy, or maybe it just tastes good for some reason. Gar’s a little worried. He knows that eventually the friction from her tongue will wear the hair off and leave a raw pink patch ripe for infection.

  
That was another useful thing about the Producers. They had medicine. Maybe not antibiotics all the time (and when they did get them. they were weak and expired), but usually light painkillers and disinfectant cream. The infection that had left him so feverish that they’d had to abandon him (and he doesn’t blame them) has long since worn off, but he carries the ragged and dirty bandage in his pocket in case something else happens. Maybe he’ll wrap it around Amber’s wrist to discourage the licking. Of course, she might just chew it off.

Oscar sighs contentedly and plops onto the ground by Gar’s side. His furry back presses against his thigh. Gar absentmindedly scratches his ears. The sky is bright tonight: the moon is nearly full, shining so the stars around it are dull. The gentle wind rustles the tall weeds around them. Crickets are singing.

Gar reaches carefully under Oscar’s head to clasp his hand around the shiny harmonica in his pocket. When he was with the Producers, they would play old songs after dark, and were often merry late into the night. This gang doesn’t care much for music, but he blows on his harmonica when they become restless and howl at the moon. Everyone seems calm, though, so maybe it’ll be fine for him to play for a little while.

He lifts the harmonica to his lips, ready to play something classical like “Piano Man,” or “Toxic,” but an unexpected noise startles him. It startles Boss, too, and he stands up stalk-straight with his tail raised stiffly. The corner of his mouth tightens and Gar can see a sharp white tooth glistening in the dark.

How long has it been since Gar’s heard human voices? He stands and peers over the weeds and down the hill, and he sees their lights shining from the highway. Hundreds of people marching on foot, bearing lanterns. Wagons drawn by teams of two or four heavy horses, their loads covered by tarps and their riders’ legs hanging carelessly from the sides. Everybody was speaking loudly, their voices a low rumble. A few of them were singing.

Gar doesn’t know if he’s excited or afraid, so he takes Boss’s cue. Boss is obviously uncomfortable, so Gar decides he is, too. At this point, it’s probably a bad idea for him to talk to humans at all. He’s not even sure if he still _can_ talk.

(despite this, while the others sleep he creeps down to the outskirts of the crowd. he smells cooking and he hears people talking about all manner of things, but he keeps his distance. the most important things he notices are the weapons: lances and swords and axes and blunderbusses. he realizes that he’s come upon a traveling army, and he leaves quickly. while war is the way of the wasteland, he wants nothing to do with it. all the same, he tosses and turns for the rest of the night.)

\---

Her bare feet splat loudly against the ground and her bangs cling stickily to her forehead. Kory sucks in a fetid lungful of air as she barrels towards the exit. She slides a few feet on something nondescript and slimy halfway to the door; for a horrible second, she thinks she’ll fall, but the ballet classes she took as a child pay off and she keeps her balance.

Her hands are still tied together, and she struggles with the door handle. She hears clattering voices behind her and she chews anxiously on the inside of her cheek. Just as she tastes blood, the door cracks open and she grins triumphantly. The voices get closer so she slams her way through before it’s done opening and starts running again.

She apologizes as she elbows a little child with a basket of bullets out of the way, but she’s pretty sure he doesn’t hear her. She doesn’t slow down, passing the boarded-up bakery and the law office (does she see someone peering out at her from that dark window?). She nearly trips over a parking block as she crosses the Food Lion parking lot.

Finally, Kory is almost certain (but not quite) that she’s safe. She slips behind a stack of abandoned shipping crates and sighs. She leans against the warm metal wall and slowly slides to the ground.

Apparently, this country has its problems, too.

\---

“Even with all the warnings…”

Even with all the warnings. Raven makes sure her hood hangs heavy and her face is lowered. The people milling about aren’t looking for her, so they won’t be paying enough attention to recognize her.

Even with all the warnings, Raven is still by the night market’s peach stand, looking at this summer’s rotten bounty. The shopkeepers have the most edible-looking peaches toward the front, but most of them have already been half-eaten by hungry insect mouths.

“A little hot for that coat, isn’t it?” asks the wrinkle-lipped lady working the stand. Raven shrugs.

“That one,” Raven says, pointing. She holds out a crumpled dollar bill and the shopkeeper takes it, handing her a battered peach in return. Raven puts it in the pocket of her big coat. This is probably the last fresh food she’ll be having for a while. If it all works out, within a couple of days she’ll have her doors blocked off. She and her books will be safe for as long as they need to be.

“As long as she’s here, it’ll keep getting worse,” someone says. “It was getting better until she came down.”

“Nothing good from the church on the mountain. Thank God the rest of them left, eh?” someone else says. 

Raven, inappropriately curious considering the subject matter, lingers for a second outside the area of light cast by the moth-circled standing lamp.

“Should have kept it to the mountain, instead of sending down their witch on us.”

“She’s worse than Everett.”

“If she’s got half a brain in her head, she’ll haul ass out of here. She knows what happened to Everett.”

At this, Raven turns and walks away quickly, a lump of anxiety in her chest.

Everett is hanging from the arch outside the courthouse.

Yeah, Raven’s not planning on having any more peaches for a while.

\---

It’s a beautiful night.


	2. Like the Toolkit in a Dollhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vic finds himself in an uncomfortable situation. Kory commits a crime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just made a mediocre salsa. If I'd used bigger peppers, spicier peppers, smoked peppers, it would have been better.

Dick is stealthy as he approaches the boarded-up clinic. Sure, it’s daytime now, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. All the medicine has probably already been taken, but he has nothing else to do with his time and it wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Last time he was hurt, he had to wrap up his arm with the leg of his spare pants. Now he has half a pair of shorts and an ugly scar, so he’d really rather have actual bandages and disinfectant next time. He creeps in through the window that faces the bird sanctuary; it’s already been broken, so that’s probably not a good sign.

  
Dick tumbles into an examination room, tearing the sleeve of his sweatshirt on the way in. It’s pretty typical-looking, with an exam table, a scale, and a little sink. It’s nothing new to him; he’s been in clinics before. Hopefully, he checks the cabinet under the sink. There’s a puddle of stagnant water below the pipe and a lidded plastic bin. He pulls the bin out and pries it open.

The bin is full of assorted tools, most of them very tiny. Dick has no idea what most of them are (tiny screwdrivers, tiny wrenches, tiny pliers), but there’s something fascinating about them. It’s probably their smallness. Despite his desire to be sensible, he’s enchanted. He can fix a motorcycle all right, but the tools for that aren’t anything like these. These are precise and delicate. They’re elegant. They’re _cute._

Somebody calls out and Dick snaps out of it, his heart pounding. He should jump through that window right now. He’s too smart to get in a fight with some stranger over bandages that may or may not exist. The person calls out again. His voice is deep and hoarse and pained.

Dick sighs. If the threatening stranger is hurt, there’s no way he’s _not_ going to try and help. He stands and cracks the exam room door open. He doesn’t see anyone.

“Hey,” he says. No response. “Hey,” he says again, more loudly. “Where are you?”

“Back--" a pause. “Back room.”

Dick cautiously creeps toward the end of the hall, even though there’s no sign there’s anybody but him and the whoever this is in the clinic. He cracks the door open and sees a several toppled shelves. Various heavy-looking books and manuals are scattered across the floor (although he doesn’t spot any bandages or pill bottles).

“You there?” calls the voice. Dick swivels in its direction and spots the speaker, who appears to be crushed underneath one of the shelves. He does a double take: the person’s visible legs are covered by loose cargo pants, but the feet are definitely metal. Boots don’t fit that tightly. Dick has seen plenty of prosses before (it isn’t that rare for someone to be missing a limb these days) but he’s never seen someone walk without either foot. He swallows. That’s not the situation at hand.

“Hi,” Dick says stupidly. “How long have you been stuck there?”

“Shut up and get this off of me,” says the person. 

Dick can get a bit of leverage by coming from the side of the shelf (its victim, being underneath, has had none of that luck). Somewhat painfully, he’s able to lift it for a few seconds. The person makes a metallic grating sound as he crawls to safety. As soon as he’s out, Dick releases the shelf with a crash. He falls back on his rear and flexes his painful fingers.

They sit silently for a few seconds, assessing each other. The stranger is even more striking when he isn’t trapped under a shelf-- his feet aren’t the only prosses on his body. Though he’s wearing a large jacket (inappropriate for the heat), his hands are silvery and carefully jointed, like on an expensive doll. His hood is pulled down, and there’s a stark contrast between his dark skin and the almost mask-like metal that covers the left side of his head, abruptly stopping the growth of his tightly curled black hair. His LED left eye glows slightly in the dimness of the room.

“Pete’s dead,” says the stranger.

“What?”

“Pete’s dead.”

“Who’s Pete?” Dick asks.

“Mechanic. He’s in the pharmacy. We were friends.”

“Oh… I’m sorry,” Dick says. “What happened?”

“The drug safe is empty and Pete’s got a bullet in his back. What do you think happened?” the stranger asks harshly.

“What were you doing here, anyway?” Dick asks.

“He said yesterday that he’d have some bolts for me. I thought they’d be in here, but apparently I was wrong.”

Dick can’t think of anything to say, so he just sits awkwardly for a few seconds. The stranger is looking at him suspiciously, and even though he doesn’t have anything to hide, it’s making him nervous.

“Want me to find them?” he finally asks, desperate to feel useful.

“I can get them myself,” the stranger says, pushing himself to his feet. He crashes loudly to the floor. “Shit. I can’t get them myself,” he corrects. “I think the shelf messed something up.” He sighs, apparently resigning himself to his fate. “Go into the second exam room to the left and get the toolkit,” he says. “It should be under the sink.”

“Right,” Dick says, nodding. He stands up and half-runs to the room he’d been in before, picks up the toolbox, and returns.

“Pop the cover plate over my knee,” the stranger says. “Use the screwdriver with the yellow handle.” He says it calmly, as though he’s done this dozens of times. Dick kneels by his side and gingerly removes the plate, revealing a complicated network of wires and circuits as well as familiar-looking mechanical components. Dick’s never built a computer, but he used to have a motorcycle.

“Now what?” Dick asks.

“See the bolts on the side? It feels like one of them got bent, so you just have to wiggle it out.”

“You can feel it?” Dick asks. “Does this hurt?”

“The nerve connection isn’t that strong,” the stranger says. “Get the spare bolts from the shelf on the left-- the one that didn’t topple. In the middle. They’re not the ones I was looking for, but they should fit.”

  
“I opened up your leg,” Dick says as he stands. Knowing it hurts, even a little, is a bit disturbing to him. “Is this the right box?”

“Should be.” Then, with a little discomfort, “Hurry up.”

Dick grabs a handful of bolts (they all seem to be the same size, so it shouldn’t matter) and hurries back to the stranger’s side. He feels around for a second in the open knee (it has a slightly greasy feeling), searching for something abnormal. He’s not totally sure what he’s looking for. “I think I found it,” he says eventually, hoping that he did actually find it and he’s not about to ruin this person’s leg.

“Wire brush. Go around the edges to loosen it,” the stranger says. His breath is coming in a bit ragged.

“This one, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name, anyway?” Dick asks as he works.

“Vic. Vic Stone.” He smiles slightly, but Dick sees a sheen of sweat on his face. “Medium sized wrench.”

“Right,” Dick says, grabbing it. “I’m Dick Grayson.”  
  


“Who names their kid ‘Dick’?”

“English wasn’t my parents’ first language. Don’t blame them, blame society for making the word dirty. Got it!” The bolt is finally loose enough for him to pull on with his fingers. It comes out awkwardly, catching on the inside of the socket. When he sees it, it’s quite bent.

  
Vic exhales. “Okay, just put in any one of the big ones. Use the red screwdriver.”

Dick hopes they’re all “big ones,” because he only sees one size. Luckily, they do seem to fit. It all comes together pretty easily.

“Does it still hurt?” Dick asks as he screws the panel back into place.

“Burns a little. It always does after someone’s been touching it.”

“Wait a second. I think I’ve got something,” Dick says, pulling off his backpack. He rifles around in it for a second before pulling out a grimy bottle of Tylenol. “Does this work on you?”

Vic smiles more genuinely. “Nope,” he says. “Thanks for the thought, though.”

“Can you eat?”

“Yeah?”

Dick pulls out a granola bar. “The wrapper isn’t torn, so it should be safe. I have a bunch back at home.”

Vic takes it. “Where are you staying?”

“McDonald’s kitchen. I dry my spare pants in the grease trap.”

“Want to come stay at the Walmart colony on Main Street?”

Dick chuckles nervously. He’s considered moving in with a colony before. He gets lonely. But he’s fought hard for his independence, and he doesn’t like the groupthink that tends to come with colony living. He’s seen exiles from subway cities, wandering the streets with their heads still shaved and their stomachs empty. He’s offered them help, but they’ve rejected him. He wonders if they’re still afraid of outsiders, despite having become outsiders themselves.

“Not particularly,” he says.

“Well, maybe I’ll come see you some time,” Vic says. “I don’t really have anyone to hang out with back at Walmart.”

\---

Vic moves in. They’re roommates. They take turns drying their spare pants in the grease trap.

\---

Kory’s teeth hurt. She’s been chewing on the duct tape around her wrists for the past ten minutes and she doesn’t seem to be making any progress.

  
She’s far away from the Food Lion at this point. She’s sitting on the ground by some convenience store dumpster, wearing her teeth until she’s sure they’ve been ground down to stumps. On a larger scale, she has no idea where she is. Kory doesn’t know this city’s streets, but she hopes that her pursuers are at least as confused as she is by its sudden corners and dark alleys.

The tape finally rips, and she pulls it apart. It’s a painful to tear it off her wrists; she’s sure it’s taken a lot of skin with it. She flexes her stiff arms and smiles with satisfaction. Now she feels a little less trapped and a lot more like a person. She stands and brushes dust off her jersey dress. Next order of action: find something to eat.

Kory isn’t sure if it’s safe to go into a convenience store. She doesn’t have any money. She isn’t even sure what they use for money in this country; back in Tamaran, after the dollar crashed, people had returned to a barter system. She can only assume it’s the same here.  
  
Well, she might as well try. She takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders, and walks around to the front of the building.

Inside the store, it’s cluttered and smells like an unpleasant mixture of cigarette smoke and cleaning supplies. The shelves are stuffed (impressive) with a variety of mismatched items. She sees dirty gardening gloves next to a box of restaurant-style latex gloves next to fuzzy, clearly handmade mittens. She resists the urge to pet them. She walks between shelves (the floor leaves a sticky residue on her feet), looking for something edible.

Behind the glass of the refrigerator, there are fresh-ish sandwiches. Back at home, the meat-bread combination was mostly in stuffed buns, but she can accept this strange local custom. She picks the one with yellow stuff in it, because she’s in the mood for yellow right now.

She brings it up to the front, and the shopkeeper says something to her in English. Kory can’t speak English. She smiles appeasingly and points to the sandwich. The cashier says something else. She points again. He groans and tilts his head back, and then holds his hand out. Kory points to the sandwich again. He reaches for it, and she turns around and runs. It’s her sandwich now.

She feels a cold puddle of shame in her chest as she runs haphazardly through the street again. Back at home, she never would have stolen. She didn’t _need_ to. Kory’s parents were the most powerful people in Tamaran before the coup. Even after the coup, she was still a princess, and princesses don’t steal.

  
Is she still a princess even though she’s barefoot and hungry now? Has her princess-hood been taken away from her? Did Galfore know that would happen when he kissed her forehead after sneaking her to the boat in the dead of night?

She’s still a princess, she decides as she ducks into an above-ground subway entrance. She’s running so fast that she nearly falls down the broken-down escalator, but she doesn’t. Finally, at the bottom, she releases a breath and leans against a wall.

Just as she’s taking a vicious bite of her sandwich, a shadow blocks off the meager light coming in from above.

In her own language, somebody greets her.


End file.
